masochists, we're all masochists

neverending charades, the belief that we are in control

we know we aren't
for damn sure, we know it

but that little white lie to ourselves
is more comforting than living with truth
the truth being that we're all masochists
deep down, each and every single fucking one of us

we put ourselves in trying situations
on purpose
with the knowledge that we'll get hurt
and we do it again
over and over
because the pain and the pleasure and
the fleeting happiness of the moment
is enough to drag us back down
again and again
over and over

but ultimately, we're all masochists

blame it on whatever rogue emotion you may have
blame it on lack of self-control
blame it on lust
blame it on the supposed notion of love
blame it on whatever the fuck you want to

except, you know you can't blame anything

you got into this mess with full knowledge
the consequences of this,
the final goodbye - whenever that may be
the extreme end..

you know it'll end up in pain,
or emptiness,
or the sordid combination of both

and instead of running, like most people would
instead of avoiding it,
instead of doing what you're supposed to do

you move towards it

you lean, you beg,
you plead, you yearn,
you want, you need..

you crave for that raw emotion
that betrayal
that absolutely beautiful stroke of hurt
that tears you through

so much so that even tears won't make it
cuts bruises wounds cigarettes alcohol drugs sex

nothing replaces it

you run, you run, you hide, you find ways of replacing that high

that sick obscene high you get

that pure, unadulterated pleasure you get
when your life is riddled with pain

yes baby, we're all masochists